


Adagio in White

by QTCutie (Qtcutie)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Claudia Auditore, BAMF Maria Auditore, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Isu Bullshittery, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Time Travel, Wingfic, as though either of them werent badass in the first place, this is unironically and unapologetically self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qtcutie/pseuds/QTCutie
Summary: It is fitting, in its own way, that salvation for the Auditore family comes on white wings stained red.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Is this incredibly self-indulgent? Yes. Do I care? Not particularly.

Federico is not sure what he’s supposed to do.

The feather is as long as his forearm and as wide as his wrist and in such a pristine white that he is sure that doves would cry at the sight of it. Federico handles it with caution, and confusion. Among the blood and ruin of the Palazzo Alberti, it seems to be the only thing to have been spared. 

There is no sign that all of this chaos is that of someone searching eagerly. No, none of Uberto’s possessions seem to have been taken, and that which one would expect to be overturned-- the desk, the chest tucked into the corner where Federico found a number of hidden missives, the loose floorboard beneath the overturned bed-- hadn’t been so much as touched before Federico got here. If this was an enemy of Alberti, they came here to send a message. If this was an Assassin…

Father couldn’t have known, Federico decides as he flips through the letters he had found. There was a pinch between Father’s brows, when he’d sent Federico out this morning. Something more stressed than concerned. Had he known this was going to happen, he would have sent Federico to clean up, not to gather information. And he must not have known about Uberto’s arrangements with the Pazzi, then, or with the Salviati, or the Maffei. The Baroncelli. The list goes on. The more names Federico gleans from the letters, the further his stomach sinks. 

This could have been an Assassin, Federico thinks. One working beyond his father’s reach. One with knowledge they didn’t yet possess. Wouldn’t have possessed, if Uberto Alberti had his way with them. The Auditore would have died here, all of them. Giovanni, Ezio, Federico himself: even little Petruccio would not be spared. An end to Auditore. An end to the Brotherhood.

Federico takes the letters, and the feather, and escapes onto the rooftops and the late-morning sun. The guard have been replaced, but they don’t often look up, and it’s easy enough to slip over their attention and back into the city. Some of the faces Federico is sure he has seen around Palazzo Pazzi. He tries to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat, but the taste sticks and lingers. 

It was a violent death. Merciless. Vengeful, almost. Federico might be a stranger to the Assassin’s bloody work himself, but he is no stranger to anger, the desire to strangle someone with your bare hands. To rip out their throat with your teeth. There’s a righteousness to that kind of anger, right up until it burns you up from the inside out, leaving your hollow and staggering in its wake. Or, at least, that’s what Mother says. 

Uberto Alberti was no longer a friend of the Brotherhood. He had not been for a long time. And yet, Federico stumbled to a stop against the cool plaster of a wall and vomits onto the tiles beneath him. Uberto had been their  _ friend _ , trusted confidant. He’d been there for more birthdays than Federico could remember. When Federico was old enough, it had been Uberto who’d suggested a blacksmith to craft the less sensitive parts of his hidden blade. Some not-so small part of Federico is just glad that the bodies had already been moved, that he did not have to see-- that he did not have to see. 

Paper crumples in his hand, and the sharp quill digs into Federico’s palm, and it’s the latter that has him gasping back into himself. He’s all but ruined the lower vane. Petruccio would be so upset, Federico thinks, and tries to push the barbs back into alignment. 

In the days of old, of Altaïr and Masyaf, Assassins did not work alone. They had informants, bureaus, Dais who knew the area and who knew which were allies and which were enemies. Who checked and double checked, constantly, who could be trusted. And though Federico knows those times to be long gone, he cannot help but long for them now-- he wants to go to Paola, to his thief contacts, to anyone who might know more about last night’s occurrences, but now he finds himself hesitating. If Alberti could betray them, who else would follow? 

Paola, with her razor wit and shrewd mind? She is loyal to the Auditore because they are loyal to the Medici. If the tides of power turned, who’s to say she would not turn with them? She must be a businesswoman first, after all, and ally to the Assassins second. She has too many people relying on her to be otherwise.

And the thieves? Most of them are loyal to La Volpe, but how many of them are not? If Alberti could hide his true nature so thoroughly, how many of the thieves could as well? It only takes a single spoiled apple to ruin the bunch.

That Alberti didn’t burn these letters says that he did not trust his associates. He betrayed the Assassins, yes, betrayed Maria and Giovanni’s confidence, but he betrayed the Templars too. Or, at least, he had planned to, the moment the tables shifted. It’s not-- that doesn’t make it any  _ better _ , but it’s enough that Federico does not feel so much like he’s drowning on dry land.

He stands, and the world does not shift beneath him. Nothing has changed: Federico is an Assassin, and now he has a target.  _ Targets _ . A list of names, to investigate and suss out, and kill if need be. Federico takes a steadying breath and lets that certainty fortify him for the moment.

Federico needs to get back. Back to Palazzo Auditore. Father will know what to do, where to start, and, if he does not, then certainly Mother will have some ideas. Federico is smart enough to know his own limits, and this. He is the furthest thing from prepared for this.

...

There is no small amount of shouting in the courtyard.

Federico winces and tries to keep to the shadows as he creeps around towards the window to Father’s office. Bernardo Baroncelli-- Federico would recognize that voice from across the city, if only for how loudly the man speaks. Shouting, he could surely be heard in Rome. An enemy of the Medici, outspoken of his hatred of the Medici and all who support the Medici. And, apparently, a Templar. 

The sting of betrayal is less sickening, now that Federico has had a moment to clear his head. Still, knowing what the Templars had been planning makes Baroncelli’s wild accusations curl cold under Federico’s skin. He crouches behind the sill of the window, just far enough out of sight to watch Maria’s hand snap out in a single, brisk motion. A small woman Lady Auditore might be, but she is no less of a firebrand than her husband. No less of an Assassin. Federico wishes he could vocalize more often how fiercely proud he is of that. 

Baroncelli looks furious, his mouth gaping and closing like a fish. Still, there is little he can do. Though his hand twitches for his sword, even he is not stupid enough to draw a blade here. He is standing in Palazzo Auditore , before the Matron and Patron of the Auditore family, and he has already pushed past the limits of their hospitality. And, from the shift of Maria’s body and the tilt of her head, she has noticed her son’s return, and she is done entertaining Bernardo Baroncelli.

“Get out,” she says, voice carrying clear through and up from the courtyard. “Your grief I understand, Messere Baroncelli, but to carry such accusations here? Into my home? Think of my children!”

Her shrill anger follows Baroncelli and his guards out of the courtyard and into the street. Federico makes no effort to conceal his mirth. Even in his grief, Baroncelli will be the laughing stock of Florence for days, if not the week. A stupid and reckless manuvere, though Federico cannot tell if it was brought on by true grief or just desperation. He turns the thought over idly in his mind.

Baroncelli and Alberti were working closely for a good while, if the comfort of their correspondence is to be believed. But if there is someone out there hunting Templars, or supposed Templars… Well, Bernardo Baroncelli is a rat of a man. It would not be surprising for him to put his own survival before anything else. 

Something trickles into Federico’s awareness. A feeling, just under his skin, smooth and calming, and if he focuses on it, he can almost tell that Ezio is in his room, and Claudia is cleaning up the kitchen, and Petruccio is sitting with Claudia. Federico closes his eyes and tips his head in the direction of where he thinks he can feel Ezio. If he just focuses a bit more…

The door to the office opens with such force that it bounces off the wall, and Federico jumps, cursing as he scrambles to hold onto that feeling, but by the time he thinks he is closing his mind around it, it’s gone again. Father’s face is lined with concern, and though it softens at the sight of Federico, the stress still lines the space between his brows. Auditores have always aged gracefully, and Giovanni had never so much looked his age. Federico’s heart aches at the sight.

“An eventful morning, then?” Federico jokes, and though it falls flat to his own ears his Father smiles. 

“I can only hope your morning has been more productive, my son,” Giovanni says, and though it is jovial he falls heavily into his chair behind his desk. It seems as though white has streaked his hair overnight, and from the way he sags heavily into his own hands, Federico does not think his father slept easily last night. 

“Bernardo does have a way of making mountains out of molehills,” Mother says as she sweeps into the room. There is still flour on her skirt, from where the apron didn’t catch it all, and the lines around her eyes seem deeper than they were when she sent Federico to bed last night. Still, she stands tall, unyielding, and moves with an Assassin’s smoothness. “Auditore have never been friends of Baroncelli, but we have always been friends of Alberti. It was foolish and hasty of him to carry such accusations here before anything is even known about Uberto’s death.”

She stops at Giovanni’s shoulder, smiling gently as she presses a kiss to the top of her husband’s head. They are so gentle with each other. Federico only hopes that, someday, he will find a love like that.

They talk about nothing of particular importance for a bit. Federico is almost shaking with the knowledge shoved in his satchel, but they should be sure that anyone Baroncelli may have left behind will no longer be paying attention-- Claudia’s love-life is not  _ that _ interesting to anyone outside of the family, except perhaps to Claudia herself, and to Duccio, though some of the rumors Federico has been hearing suggest that Duccio may not be as loyal as he has sworn to be. 

Besides, it is nice to pretend to be normal, for however long it can last. To talk about Petruccio’s health is faring, or how late Ezio came back last night, and whether or not they should be expecting a visit from Messere Vespucci soon. Federico throws his head back and laughs at Father’s pinched expression at the idea of having to placate Vespucci (again).

Mother sits on the corner of the desk, looking at Federico with expectant eyes, and Federico silently prays that these will not be the last of the good times.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all really jumped on this story huh.  
> This chapter was rewritten about three times because my old computer crashed and lost the first draft, and then I decided I wasn't going to do Desmond's perspective (yet), and *then* i wrote this version. I have a new laptop now, and a better idea of where i want to go with this story, so I should be able to get these out a *little* bit faster.  
> (don't quote me on that)

The assistant of de’Medici is a rather plain young woman who Federico probably wouldn’t give a second glance in any other situation. Which, probably, is her entire plan, to use her plainness to distract from the fact that her skirts are separate from her bodice. For quick removal, if Federico had to guess. From the subtle sound of shifting fabric, she is probably wearing pants in an Arab fashion beneath, rather than proper hose. _And_ she is armed. A dagger, at least, though Federico is willing to put his money on a shortsword hidden beneath all that fabric-- it’s hidden well, but the folds of fabric catch a bit too low for just a dagger. 

Still, she curtsies politely and smiles sweetly as Federico and Giovanni approach. If she is surprised by their unannounced visit, she does not show it. Instead, the smile she gives Giovanni is almost. Amused.

“Stella,” Giovanni greets with chagrin that can only come from familiarity. “Does de’Medici have a moment free? We have important matters to discuss that cannot wait.”

“ _il Magnifico_ always has a moment for you, Giovanni,” Stella says pointedly, and Federico is almost surprised enough by her boldness to miss the meaning behind her words. “Please, follow me.” 

Her hair is too short for the bun she wears it in, Federico thinks, and tries not to stare too obviously as she walks. A touch longer than Federico’s, perhaps, though the way it is pulled and twisted does an elegant job of hiding it. There is very little she can do to hide the distinctive shapes of her shoulders and arms, or the predatory sleekness to the way she walks-- if she were _not_ a career mercenary of some type at some point during her life, Federico will boil and eat his own shoe. 

Palazzo de’Medici is much larger than Palazzo Auditore, which in itself is not particularly surprising. The Auditore family is relatively small, after all, and though it does good business, it does not do a great deal of business beyond Florence and Monteriggioni. Palazzo Auditore can be mostly run by Annetta and Maria and one or two other servants.

On the other hand, de’Medici works across Tuscany, and occasionally even beyond. Federico sees over a dozen servants just being led through the house, few of them maids, most of them scribes and spies coming and going. A particularly cheerful young blonde seems to be seeing himself out, chatting animatedly with a weary-looking older man-- Federico thinks he recognizes the blonde as one of the artists his mother acts as a patron for, but for the life of himself he cannot recall a name, or if she spoke of him with particular fondness. 

She speaks of all of them with particular fondness. It is jarring, sometimes, the dichotomy that is Maria Auditore. The fierce Assassin, and the gentle mother. Federico can hardly wrap his mind around how she can bloody her hands in the night and in the morning turn those same hands to cultivating such beautiful lives as those of her children, or the artists she favors. How she can just. Set her robes aside, when the sun rises. It is a most terrible fate, Federico knows, to be an Assassin that rarely sheds their robes, but how can one, when the weight of the lives they’ve taken still weighs on their shoulders no matter what they are wearing? 

“Stand tall,” Giovanni murmurs softly, and Federico jolts as he realizes they are standing before the door to what is most certainly Lorenzo’s office. Stella announces them, and ushers them inside, and Federico tries to swallow past the lump that has formed in his throat. 

And then she is gone, and they are alone with _il Magnifico_ , Lorenzo de’Medici.

There is an elegance to the way Lorenzo de’Medici stands that Federico could never hope to emulate. Federico is an Assassin, yes, but Lorenzo is a career politician. Poise is a large part of his job description, rivalled by good business instinct and a keen eye for everything and anything that might be happening in his city. Federico isn't jealous, not really. It's just--

Lorenzo de’Medici is a very attractive man. Fair-featured, stern but not ascetic, with rich dark hair, and quick hands, and a presence that commands a room, and Federico has to work very hard to keep his expression blank where he stands at Father's shoulder. They are here to condemn a dead man, this is a _serious moment_. There will surely be time to admire later. Probably. 

It is far too late for a social visit, and even if they had arrived at any other time there would be no questioning what they are here for: Giovanni is dressed in the formal regalia of an Assassin, and, though he hasn’t yet earned that honor of such garb, Federico is still a white-dressed shadow at his father’s side. 

They are Assassins first, and noblemen second. They bow to de’Medici out of respect for the power and support he throws behind their Brotherhood, for working in the light that they may work from the shadows, not out of any deference to the Medici family itself. And Lorenzo bows to them out of respect to the power they hold over him as the vanguard of humanities freedom-- should Lorenzo misstep too badly, and his path take him down that of a tyrant, the Assassins will be there with blades bare. 

Lorenzo pours himself some wine, and Federico is almost grateful that de’Medici does not extend them the courtesy of a glass. His stomach is in knots. It’s the grace of iron discipline that keeps his hands from shaking, and likely the grace of God that he is not expected to speak.

“Let me offer my condolences before we begin, Giovanni,” Lorenzo says gently. “I know that Alberti was a friend of yours, and of your family. His absence will be sorely felt.” 

Father tips his head, and Federico knows he should be mourning still, for the kind man he’d known, not the rat Alberti had truely been. But God knows that this life is not kind to old friendships, and Federico got all of his tears out already. Now, all he feels is the burn of bile that creeps up his throat.

How close they had been, to letting Uberto Alberti ruin everything they’d built.

How close they still are, to losing all they have to the Templars.

The longer Father speaks, the more grim Lorenzo becomes-- he drains his first glass quickly, and the second, though the third he stews and mulls over with a dark kind of thoughtfulness. By the time he begins to speak of Pazzi, and conspiracy, and murder, Father has helped himself to the wine-- a good vintage, probably, but already gone warm. It is a presumptive motion at best, insulting to de’Medici’s hospitality at worst, but Lorenzo only gives Giovanni a fond, if exasperated, smile. 

Federico, for his part, does his best not to think too deeply about his father’s comfort in the Medici household, or about the nature of whatever relationship his father might have with _il Magnifico_ . It is probably better that way. _Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted_ , but what Federico doesn’t know cannot be used to embarrass him later. Instead, he keeps half an ear on their conversation as he studies the books that line the shelves. His father’s library has spoiled him, certainly, with its vast (some would say, _heretical_ ) collection of knowledge. Lorenzo, at least, does not seem to pack his shelves with unread histories or blank tomes, but the book do seem to have a singular focus. 

War. Politics. Economy. The building blocks of nations. Federico is so distracted by what claims to be a translation of a text from the Orient named _The Art of War_ that he almost misses the question posed to him.

It is a question worth chewing on, vague enough to be a trap, said by a man with enough confidence of the Auditore to be a test. Giovanni, for all he sits expectant and on-edge now, introduced Federico as his apprentice first and his son second-- Lorenzo will not judge Federico for taking his time to choose his words carefully, only for the words themselves that Federico chooses. 

Federico turns his eyes back to the unexpectant spines and chews on his own tongue.

“If I were in such a position,” he says carefully, “I would move to put things in motion quickly, before more ground is lost. Through bribery and force, if need be. Florence sits in a fragile balance, yes, but it is easier to righten that balance from a position of strength, than to risk not having that option because you were too busy trying to play nice. They will accelerate their plans: destabilize Milan first, then no doubt attempt to assassinate you and your brother before the news even reaches Florence. They will expect you to be too wary now to simply ambush you during mass as initially planned, but I imagine a social gathering would do nicely to get you where they need you. Something you can’t avoid. A marriage, perhaps-- not Vieri, he has eyes only for Cristina Vespucci and she will not have him, but Francesco is old enough and a key piece of this plot already, and bold enough to stain his wedding day red besides.”

He pauses for breath, only for the words to stick in his throat. Lorenzo is watching him with a new kind of intensity in those shrewd eyes. As though Federico has revealed himself to be a wolf, rather than the sheep he first appeared to be. Federico tips his chin up and meets Lorenzo’s gaze, and the strangest feeling washes over him-- not the calming awareness of his family, but something shaper, brighter. The awareness almost shimmers behind Federico’s eyes, and for a moment it is as though Lorenzo is wreathed in _gold_. 

Lorenzo throws his head back and laughs, the rough sound of someone honest but unpractice, and the awareness slips away just as quickly as it came. Federico turns resolutely back to the shelves. Whatever compliments Lorenzo and Giovanni pay him, Federico does not hear. He feels. Unmoored. Like he has been knocked off his feet and hit his head on the stone beneath him. His eyes ache, and he clenches his teeth and fists against the waves of lightheadedness fade.

Federico knows how to be an Assassin, in concept. His parents had worked small lessons into every aspect of Federico's life since he was a child. It had been Maria who’d taught Federico to throw knives, when Federico was still only as tall as her hip. She’d shown him how to hold them, when and what kind of knives needed rotations and when and which didn’t. He had been an eager learner, if confused as to when he would ever need this knowledge. And how his mother knew this in the first place-- Assassins were but a bedtime story then.

Maria had thrown her head back and laughed. “I work with knives much more often than your father,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen around them, the cutting-board on the wall that they’d been using as a target. “And can I not teach you something curious, my son? Perhaps someday you will find some good use for this skill.”

Oh, how naive he had been, to have fallen for her lies so easily. It hadn’t felt like a betrayal, when they finally brought him into Father’s office to tell him the truth. It had actually made a great deal of sense, once Federico had a minute to turn it all over in his mind. And he understands that secrecy now-- to be so young, dragged into a world such as this? 

Federico only wishes that, somehow, he could have been more prepared for _this_ part of an Assassin’s work. 

“Of course,” Federico says to whatever question Lorenzo might have posed, and tries not to feel like he’s struggling against the waves without any hope of reaching the shore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, this semester has actually kicked my ass. But. Semester's almost over. I'll have like, almost a month off to just write. I'm looking forward to being able to devote time to this again.

Federico will first and freely admit that he perhaps should have been paying a bit more attention.

“Your apprenticeship should not raise any suspicion, nor truly come a surprise to anyone,” Father says, once they are back in the safety of Palazzo Auditore, and the relative quiet of his office. Mother is putting the others to bed-- they must maintain every moducrum of normality they can. “We are bankers, after all, and my friendship with Lorenzo has not exactly been a secret.” 

The documentation looks official, for all it was conceived and crafted in only a scant few hours. A convenient excuse for Federico to stay close to Lorenzo, at least for a few weeks. A few months, should things not go as planned. Lorenzo’s handwriting is almost painfully neat. Federico does not know why he expected it to be anything else. 

“You are a bit old, perhaps,” Father muses. His hands are frozen on the straps of his hidden bracer, as though he suddenly is no longer certain of his choices. He rides for Milan before the dawn in hopes of stopping the assassination of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, while Federico remains here. Well. Federico and Maria, but for Maria to spend as much time with Lorenzo as would be necessary would be suspicious at best, gossip-worthy at worst. And Federico is not nearly experienced enough to ride to Milan alone. In this, they have no other options.

“We never have been conventional in what we do,” Federico assures, and for once the false confidence in his voice does not seem to fall flat on his own ears. “I am sure that it can simply be passed off as another Auditore oddity.” 

Giovanni sighs, his shoulders sagging as the tension drains out of them, and again Federico is struck by how old his father is. Not too old for this line of work, not yet, but. World-weary, certainly. A hand wraps around the back of Federico’s neck and Federico goes easily, pressing his forehead against his father’s and letting his presence provide whatever comfort it can. 

“One: stay your blade from the blood of the innocent,” Federico murmurs. “Two: hide where your enemies and your allies might see. Three: never compromise the Creed.”

“Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine,” Giovanni says with finality that makes Federico’s guts twist uncomfortably.

_ Nothing is True _ . There is no Grand Plan, no final culmination of humanity’s efforts, just a series of causes and effects, actions and reactions building on each other to shape the world they live in.

_ Everything is permitted _ . They are each filled with potential, as terrible and wonderful as that is. They are each responsible for their own actions, and their own fates. And the Auditore, they are Assassins, tasked with defending that potential, no matter how terrible or wonderful it becomes.

After a moment, Giovanni draws away. He does not look lighter-- another person’s life is a heavy burden. But the lines around his eyes look less tight, and his he does not look so much like he is about to send Federico off to death. Federico is trying not to feel like he is being sent off to death. Father trusts Lorenzo, and the Templars clearly hate de’Medici, but. They have been tricked before. They will not survive being tricked again.

Father’s has emptied the locked drawer of his chest, his kit spread across his desk as he arms himself, and a bit of white peaks through the steel and dark leather. The feather, Federico realizes as he draws it from the mess. The bottom of the drawer has not treated it well-- the vane is even more tattered, and the rachis is bent, creased, though by some miracle not broken. Petruccio would surely be able to identify it. Or, at least, he will be able to give Federico a better idea of what kind of bird this must have come from, because Federico’s first and only impression is that it must have been very large. 

The last case of throwing knives disappears into the folds of Giovanni’s robes, and though he has snuck off in the night many times in Federico’s lifetime, for the first time Federico feels his heart stick in his throat at the thought. Perhaps it is the knowledge of just what Giovanni has been tasked with, what danger is circling close, that makes Federico fear so. The terrible, sinking knowledge that Giovanni might leave and never come back. Maybe not this time, but. Eventually. Because for all they are Assassins, they are still humans, and humans are only mortal. 

“Safety and peace,” Giovanni says, and places a single kiss on Federico’s forehead.

“Safety and peace,” Federico says, and not one word more as his father slips through the window and into the night. 

It is quiet, in his absence. This has always been a quiet space, of course, but for the first time it feels more like a tomb than an office, a place for the dead and the still, rather than the living and the busy. Federico closes the window and tries not to feel too much like the silence is choking him. 

“One moment here, and the next moment gone,” Mother says fondly from the doorway. Federico does not turn to face her-- he feels too close to tears at the moment, and he is sure that the sight of her would push him over. “Every time.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been married for over twenty years, and have been friends longer. Let me tell you, Federico, it never gets easier.” 

Federico hums in his throat. He doesn’t know how she does it. Has done it, for so long. Must have been a Saint in her last life. She certainly has the patience of one. Federico only wishes he’d inherited but half of it. 

Mother takes the feather from his hands, turning it over in her own, humming as she does. “The great hunts used to be marked by bloodied feathers,” she says, almost. Wistfully. Longing for times that have well and passed. She closes his hands around the feather as she hands it back, and despite the abuse it is still silk-smooth. “Perhaps this will give you their grace, if nothing else.”

“I might rather have their wit, if I must deal with  _ il Magnifico _ day in and day out now,” Federico says, and Mother laughs. 

It is a most blessed sound.

…

The morning comes slowly. Federico did not sleep easy. 

He tries. Tosses and turns in his bed until he’s exhausted from trying, but still sleep eludes him. Slips out of his fingers every time he reaches for it. He cannot tell if it is anxiety, or stress, or perhaps even grief that keeps him awake. It might even be an unholy combination of the three. It hardly matters-- Federico cannot sleep, can only shift with every new wave of thoughts that crash against him. Eventually he takes to just laying with his eyes closed, drifting in and out of awareness, stewing over what if’s until the touch of light on the horizon tells him it is an acceptable time to rise. 

Morning in Palazzo Auditore is a quiet affair-- Claudia is the only morning person in the family, and the rest of them humor her. Doubly so because she is the only daughter of the Auditore. And though she is as graceful and beautiful as is befitting of a noblewoman, Federico would never call his sister the  _ gentle _ one of the family. He’ll leave that title to Petruccio, who is often too sickly for combat training, and therefore doesn’t leave Federico with  _ bruises _ when done with him. 

“You are slow today,” Claudia says with a cheerfulness shared only by imps and other torturous tricksters. She grins only wider when Federico accepts her offered hand and lets her pull him to his feet. “Please do not tell me you spent all night chasing skirts too. Ezio is bad enough.” 

They are in the garden, perfect for sparring with its soft dirt to break falls, perfectly private with its high walls and early-morning dew. They are only watched by birds, and the occasional thief who stops on their room of their way to wherever they work for the day to watch the curiosity that is the Auditore children. It is fortunate that de’Medici have bought off all of the Guilds and most all of the unaffiliated, or rumors of the strangeness of the Auditore would be twice as bad as they already are. 

“I did not sleep well,” Federico says, and though he does not mean to, he can see on his sister’s face that his words come out irate and snappish. He backtracks quickly. “I’m sorry, I--”

“You were seeing Father off, weren’t you,” Claudia says, level and stern, and it is not so much a question as it is a statement of fact. 

Federico chews on his own tongue. He is supposed to be training her as Father and Mother trained him, as Mother requested, in secret, keeping the truth of it even from Claudia. But for the most part Federico has been lying by omission-- if Claudia does not ask, then Federico does not have to answer, and they have both been quite content with such an arrangement. He could never bring himself to lie directly to his baby sister. And, it wouldn’t matter if he did, because Claudia is more clever than him by a half, and doubly as stubborn. 

So Federico keeps his silence, even as Claudia hisses a breath of exasperation.

“I know I’m not ready yet,” she says, and each word drips with poorly-contained resentment. “But Father can ask favors of you, and Ezio can run messages, I don’t see why I can’t  _ help _ .” 

And oh, how much Federico wants to tell her. So that she might call him an idiot, if nothing else, for worrying himself in circles over something that’s already decided. Instead, he can only bite his tongue until it stings as he pulls her into a hug so tight it makes her huff against his shoulder. She hugs him back just as tightly, though, with a laugh that sounds pulled rough and wet from her chest. 

For a moment, they just stand there, Federico not inclined to let his sister go, Claudia willing to indulge her oldest brother for a moment longer and a moment longer. And when he finally releases her, she smiles, reaching up to mess up his hair and wincing when she finds it full of sweat and dirt.

“Go bathe,” she says with a false air of levity, shoving his shoulder towards the door. Federico goes easily, with a laugh he knows doesn’t reach his eyes, much less the hard knot of concern that’s twisted up in his chest. 

Uberto Alberti would have had her killed just as quickly as the rest of them, Federico is sure. Or, left her family-less and destitute and thrown to the streets and its dogs. And Mother and Claudia both would have survived in the latter case, no doubt, but. Federico can easily imagine what that kind of cruelty would do to his sister, can see her dressed in white and red, leather and steel.

Mother and Claudia would have survived, no doubt. The rest of Italy? Would have burned and bathed in blood with the wrath of the Auditore women. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to get as much work in as i can during this break so hopefully it'll be enough to tide yall over during finals.

It is. A trying three days of silence.

Working for de’Medici is not so much different from looking for Father, really. Go here. Do this. Talk to this person, collect this thing, drop this other thing off. The kind of menial errands that night be expected from an apprentice. Were Federico not well aware of his position and intentions, he would be… mildly offended, actually, at such casual dismissal. But Lorenzo has assured him that his own protection is more than adequate, and is offering him a degree of freedom that Father wouldn’t have, a chance to pursue his own leads without the prying of eyes or the constant demand to report back, and Federico is not in the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth.

The Pazzi family is not so tasteless as to announce a wedding so soon after the death of such an affluential figure as Alberti, but rumors fly nonetheless. A pretty woman from a minor noble family, quiet and polite and entirely too trusting of a man with money, even a man like Francesco de’Pazzi. It will be a rushed thing, Federico is sure, sold to the public as an affair of  _ passion _ . Federico laughs quietly to himself. He isn’t sure that Irene Saluzzo has a passionate bone in her body. 

Federico had almost forgotten the necessity of posturing and posing of nobility in the flurry of other responsibilities, though he sees now that had been foolish-- Uberto Alberti may have been a traitorous rat, but in the public eye he had still been a very close friend of the Auditore. They are expected to be mourning, to reach out to friends during this time of grief , and to seek consolation in the church. And though Mother has spared him the most of the tittering of the few close friendships she has managed to cultivate outside of their circle of Assassins and contacts, visiting them while Federico spent the morning listening to Lorenzo and his clients talk shop, she is still expected to have the company of her husband as she travels the streets, or at least one of her sons. 

And, really, it’s not a chore. Beneath the anger and resentment, Federico does mourn Alberti. He mourns the memories, his childhood, the trust that had been so cruelly betrayed. And though he does not allow himself to wallow in it, it does make every well-meaning question about his grief easier to answer. 

Mother raps twice on the doorframe before she lets herself into the tall, slightly leaning building, and Federico follows with only a moment of hesitation. The foyer is… nice enough, he supposes, though any welcoming atmosphere that might have been built is ruined by the foul smell of paint and something caustic burning. There is a door ajar, and though the room beyond does not appear to be a formal workshop it is a mess of papers and canvas, and Federico does not want to think about how messy the  _ actual _ workshop might be. 

There is a moment. A crash of something toppling over, and then the hasty sounds of someone rightening it, and the soft calls of a sleep-rough voice calling for a moment of patience. Mother watches the stairs with a fondly exasperated look, as though this is a common occurrence. A quirk of an otherwise genius of a man, Federico is sure. If it weren’t, Mother would have no patience for it. 

A quirk of an otherwise  _ gorgeous _ man. Long practice has Federico’s face schooled into something politely neutral, but he can’t help the way his eyes roam a youthful face and bright blue eyes, framed by messy blonde hair. A very slender form, and no wonder Mother chose to be his Matron, if nothing else than to ensure the artist might eat properly every day. 

“Madonna Maria,” the man breathes, half-joyous and half-disbelieving, and he stumbles over himself to bow to her. “Apologies, I forgot all about your visit. I got caught up in a project, you see, and--”

“Peace, Leonardo,” Mother says gently, coaxing this  _ Leonardo _ into a brief but firm hug. “We had no visit scheduled. I only wished to visit a friend in this trying time.” 

He wears his every emotion on his face-- the pinch of passing confusion between his eyebrows, followed by a look so full of sorrowful empathy Federico feels his heart ache in echo. And he is gentle, so very gentle, when he takes one of Mother’s hands in both of his, his whole body bowing as though straining under the weight of her grief. 

“My condolences, Madonna Maria,” Leonardo says. “If there is anything I can do to ease your grief, I shall.” 

“You are too kind for this world,” Mother says, and frees herself to pat Leonardo on the cheek. “A moment of distraction for me and my son, I think, would be very welcome. You said you were working on a new project?”

It is like a whole new person stands before them. Federico can well enough recognize that mad spark of genius in Leonardo’s eyes, that inferno of intellect and passion poorly contained in a human form. It drips from his every word when he speaks of this seemingly new obsession of his, that tinge of mania in his voice that Federico has come to recognize in true geniuses, however few of them he has had the luxury of meeting. 

And, oh, to imagine a human, flying as the birds do! It makes Federico think of angels in their holy purpose. Of the feather, suddenly heavy where it is tucked within his vest, and he cannot help but wonder.

Leonardo takes Mother aside to show her some of the prototypes he has been working with, and Federico takes it upon himself to poke around a little. The workshop is just as messy as he feared. The longer he looks, however, the more he finds that there is a method to the madness. Paintings here, with the necessary supplies spiralling outward from an easel in lazy circles. Here, where Leonardo seems to be sketching out something that is meant to be made from leather, and though he has gathered all the materials he doesn’t seem to have progressed past sketches-- the designs, when Federico plucks a few from the pile, are familiar in a way that Federico cannot place.

_ Phantom _ , is as far as Federico gets, but trying to puzzle out Leonardo’s cramped, strange writing makes his head ache behind his eyes. Disinterested, he sets it aside. Perhaps he will be able to get Leonardo to speak about it some, once his enthusiasm about his flying machines has been expended. And it might even be understandable, whatever he says. Federico hums softly to himself as he turns his attention to what appears to be the least chaotic corner of the room. Leonardo’s bed, it seems, though many things have been abandoned on the floor around it, and even the duvet has not been spared from the smears of paint that touch everything else. 

The space before the window is clear, though, and, upon stepping up to it, Federico can see why-- it has a delightful view of the street below, of the small stage where a minstrel now plays, that will surely entertain some clown or fire-tosser when the sun falls, and the houses across the street are staggered that it is not so easy to peer into their windows, and that they would have a difficult time peering into Leonardo’s. The genius surely mourns the lack of sunlight, but, alas, one place cannot be perfect in every way. 

One of La Volpe’s thieves is reclined on the roof across. Poor thing looks every bit like he’s been given the absolute worst post in all of Florence. Perhaps Leonardo doesn’t get out much. Or, meet with anyone particularly interesting. Though, now having met this fetching blonde genius, Federico is tempted to swing by here often in the future. If nothing else, it may serve to keep La Volpe on his toes. 

Leonardo has moved onto his paintings now, and he appears to have muses in plenty. Lovely ladies, all of them, painted with the loving care of a skilled hand. But like where he works in leather, there are sketches, dozens of them, all of the same aquiline face and sharp eyes, full lips marred by a cruel-looking scar. A beautiful man, surely, but something about Leonardo’s drawings captures this. Yearning sadness. This indescribably, bone-deep kind of longing. 

His true muse, then. Leonardo wasn’t looking for physiological accuracy, but to capture a moment, a  _ feeling _ , however fleeting. Federico can see it where the lines press heavy-handed here to capture the guilty cheer in the curl of the man’s lips. And where the lines flick feather-light to trace the way the man’s eyes are open in lazy slits, Federico can almost see the glowing of gold in those dark eyes. 

A flicker of gold in the corner of his eye. Federico’s head snaps around to track it, and the world seems to fall away into tones of shifting grey. Grey, and blue, Mother and Leonardo, and it’s more than just seeing wraiths, it’s a feeling, safety and peace in their presence, and the demand of gold hidden among the mess. 

Federico blinks, and the world settles around him again, and he feels dizzy with its loss. His eyes ache, but he can see what he is meant to see now, hidden half-hazardly among the mess. Long as Federico’s forearm, and white as precious opal. It wasn’t buried by accident-- it’s pristine, placed beneath nothing that might ruffle and ruin it. 

The room falls into a tense silence. 

Mother’s lips are pressed into a fine line at the sight of the feather. It may simply be a coincidence. A strange bird in the city. Leonardo would be among the first to investigate such a creature, surely. But such feathers are… distinctive. And make for excellent calling cards. 

“Wherever did you find such a thing?” Federico asks, breathless and charming, turning his attention to the young genius. Though his sight has returned to normal, that feeling of safety does not fade. Leonardo does not intend to hurt them, Federico is almost sure, but that does not mean that Leonardo is not trying to hide something from them. 

His laugh is tittering and nervous, and he shifts from foot to foot like prey caught between two predators-- Mother moves herself, so subtly, between Leonardo and the stairs, should he think to turn and bolt. Federico most hopes he will not. Leonardo has the potential to be a wonderful asset, and perhaps even a wonderful friend of the family, and it would be. Quite a shame. To have to otherwise treat him poorly. 

Whatever Leonardo is to say is interrupted by the clamoring of bells. 

“ _ Desmond _ ,” Leonardo hisses, a name, maybe, or a curse, directed at the heavens and dripping with concerned aggravation, as he follows Mother down the stairs. 

Federico does not watch them go. The window is more than wide enough to slip through, and it is not a difficult climb to the roof. The thief across the way waves nervously before darting off, perhaps to get help, though more likely to hide and watch carefully. Wise, with the racket of guards running through the streets. Federico follows them as closely as he can from the shadows above. His gut sinks when he recognizes the in which direction they are travelling.

Palazzo Pazzi is in chaos. There is a man dead in the courtyard-- monk’s garb, in Palazzo Pazzi, Federico can guess that it is Stefano da Bagnone. The blood is still fresh enough that it spreads swift over the stonework. Killed quickly, as Alberti must have been, and Federico wishes he could get closer, to see what kind of weapon, and in what fashion. But even as the guards look for their culprit, others are already collecting the body to be moved.

Even as Federico watches, a winged figure lifts himself over the far wall of the Palazzo and launches into flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene Saluzzo is a made up person lol  
> Also. Hi Desmond. Good to finally see you in this story that is at least partially about you.


End file.
